


Yes yes and also yes

by Catchclaw



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: First Kiss, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-27
Updated: 2011-11-26
Packaged: 2017-10-26 14:15:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/284233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 3 am--again--and Kirk is not happy about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I borrowed the title from that of Mike Doughty's new album. Cheers, Mike.

Jim Kirk was drifting.

He felt the cool of the stars at his back. He watched his breath drift away from him in hot, humid clouds. His face was full of smoke.

The darkness vibrated within him, a low bass note in his spine. He took a deep breath and filled his lungs with the dark, feeling it rush into him, sink into him, as a deep, hot stone.

For a moment, he shone.

Then he reached across the table towards Sam, Sam who turned and stretched his long, charred fingers towards Kirk’s own. His eyes, Kirk thought, his eyes–they were still and glassy, filled with a searing brightness–echoes of a far-off sun.

A ripple shot across Kirk’s hand, and he looked down to see his brother's blackened fingers stretching, reaching, twisting across his wrist, his upper arm, his chest. He struggled fruitlessly and forced himself to look back at Sam's face--and he saw the light, a living, tangled thing, pouring from his brother's eyes, rushing over the table, and swallowing his hands--

Kirk opened his mouth to scream and choked on ash and stardust and the dead cold light of Sam's eyes. He tried to take a deep breath, to pull the fiery dark back into his lungs, but–

 _I’m awake_ , Kirk told himself, _wake up! Wake up!_

He fought to open his eyes, feeling the familiar bed beneath him, hearing the low steady thrum of the engines but unable to yank himself free of the blinding cold that spilled from Sam’s face. His eyelids heavy, he strained to see outside of himself, to escape the grip of his own mind.

For an instant, he teetered–his dream-mouth filled with Sam’s long, scarred fingers, and he felt them knot themselves around his lungs, wrench tight around his heart. They wound their way around his body–they filled him, held him, kept him still, too still. The living bright devoured all that it touched. It came for him, and he cried out for the dark.  
Then they gasped, both dream-self and real self in unison–and he woke up.

He sat up, sweating, cursing. Still disoriented, he stretched his fingers toward his mouth, probing his throat, sliding over his wrists, searching for imaginary binds.

Kirk opened his eyes.

He was awake. Again. He sighed, wiping the water from his face and pressing his palms to his eyes.

“Lights,” he said.

Obediently, the room flooded itself with light. Slowly, wearily, reluctantly, James Kirk lowered his hands from his face. His rooms betrayed no evidence that he’d slept: his desk too neat, his boots at attention, the mirror suddenly filled with the dead brightness of his dream–

“Lights off!” he snapped.

Again the room obeyed.

“Time,” he said, not really wanting to hear the answer.

“The time is 0305 hours,” the computer announced, a bit too cheerfully.

Damn it. Third night this week.

He blew out his breath, half expecting to see it drift away from him in the gloom. He was awake now. Right.

He lay back on the bed, stretching an arm behind him and resting his head in the crook. _If only it had been 0130, or, even better, 0430_ , he thought. _Why now? Why 3 am, again? Why did I even ask? I could have gone back to sleep if I didn’t know what time it was._

 _Liar._

Somehow, he’d known what time it was, both within the dream and without.

Damn it.

He closed his eyes and thought about sheep, big fluffy ones with coal eyes and matted wool. The first dozen or so jumped obediently over the fence, and, just as obediently, he counted them off. 15, 16, 17. He felt himself sliding gratefully towards sleep, his body heavy, his mind uncurling its fist.

Suddenly, one of the sheep stopped short, giving him the eye.

 _Really_? the sheep asked in a familiar drawl. _Is this the best you got, Jim Boy?_

 _Shut up, Bones_ , he thought wearily.

 _What are you gettin’ pissed at me about? If you’d told me you were havin’ trouble sleeping, I could have scared up some of those magic red pills, or hit you over the head or something. Hell, I’m not a mind-reader._

 _Since when?_

 _Ha, ha_ , the sheep drawled, leaning casually against the fence. _You’re a goddamn comedian_.

 _Bones, please. Go eat some hay or something_.

The sheep drew himself up with some dignity and gazed haughtily at Kirk.

 _I’ve sure as hell got better things to do than get bitched at by you, Captain, sir. You’re the one talking to a sheep_.

Kirk opened his eyes. _Great_ , he thought. _Just goddamn great_.

He shifted the arm above his head and bumped against a hard spine. He felt a flash of hope– _I could read!_ he thought excitedly.

 _But you’d have to turn the light on_ , his mind reminded him.

Right.

 _And do you really want to go back there, back into the–_

 _No_! Kirk thought. _No, I do not, thank you very much. I’ll just sit here in the dark like a good little boy and sweat it out for–_

“Time?” the question was out of his mouth before he realized it.

“0320 hours,” said the computer cheerfully.

Damn! 40 more minutes. Damn it.

Kirk could feel himself tensing up, his body shoving sleep farther away with each flash of anger, each pulse of adrenaline. He took a deep breath, let it out–and another, and another–willing himself to push the anger away so that the warm darkness could smother it.

Spock, he thought suddenly. Spock.


	2. Chapter 2

He relaxed slightly, allowed himself to feel the mattress beneath him, the hard edge of the shelf against his fingers, the gentle pressure of the darkness against his eyelids.

Spock: the island of calm of a universe of chaos. Stalwart, steady, sure.

He let his mind drift. He saw a flash of blue, a thin trickle of green, a blur of black hair glittering in hot sunlight.

Stalwart, steady, sure–even when blinded, possessed, mind-melded with god knows what, humiliated–

Hmm. Perhaps not then.

In his mind, Kirk saw again Spock’s clenched jaw, his trembling hand, his murderous gaze as he swung wildly around, swinging the lirpa straight at Kirk’s head. Then, he had felt fear. Now, he felt–what?

Confused.

He felt blood rush to his temples. He pressed his hands to his face, feeling the flush pound in his cheeks.

He felt–

He kicked off the blanket and stretched out, searching for cooler spots on the bed. The heat in his face started to sink, and for a moment, Kirk thought he was free. Spock, he thought again, and the heat settled in his stomach and bloomed outward, reaching towards–

 _No_.

He pressed his hands to his stomach and willed his body to relax. He felt like he was ready for a fight–one he was rapidly losing. Desperately, he pulled himself back from his body, seeking refuge in his mind. The last two nights, his mental refuge had held, and he had slipped into an uneasily sleep without confronting–whatever it was he was avoiding.

 _Spock_.

It felt like a betrayal of sorts–to live and work with someone for so long, to move easily between camaraderie and command, to trust that person with you life without a second thought–and then, in your friend’s darkest, hottest hour, to suddenly see them–him–as desirable.

Kirk sighed.

Not good. And, more importantly, not fair to Spock. Or to himself, damn it.

You don’t want the man until he tries to kill you, he scolded himself. Yeah, that’s healthy. And hey, there’s a great start to a relationship–a psychosis that’d keep McCoy busy for years if he--

Booze!

He sat up and slid out of bed, the taste of brandy on his lips. In the dark, he felt for the cabinet where he’d squirreled away a bottle after McCoy had “borrowed” his last one. He slid the panel open and closed his hand around the bottle. Yes.

Gingerly, he started back towards the bed, one hand stretched out, suddenly unsure exactly where the dark ended and the bed began.

His shin figured out the answer a moment before his brain did, hitting the bedframe with a solid THUD that Kirk felt in his teeth. He teetered, waving the brandy in a desperate attempt to steady himself. Unable to right himself, he toppled over with a loud crash, the bottle shattering beneath him.

He cursed loudly, trying not to stab himself with the shattered remains of a very fine brandy that would be sorely missed.

“Lights!” he barked.

The room leapt into light and he felt his temples begin to throb. Squinting, he peered down at the sodden mess and cursed again. He’d managed to break the bottle right on top of his blanket, which was dutifully absorbing 200 credits worth of Andorian alcohol. His pants were soaked and he was lying in a heap of broken glass. Fan-fucking-tastic.

He tried to roll himself up, pointing his bare feet as far from the shards as he could, and realized that he was still clutching the neck of the bottle–which he promptly dropped.

“Shit!” he cried in frustration, suddenly very aware of how little sleep he’d had, and how goddamn tired he was.

The door chime sounded.

He froze.

The chime sounded again.

Probably security, he thought. Somebody heard me shouting and called–

“Come in!” he shouted. Better to be briefly humiliated than to lie here all night.

It wasn’t Security.


	3. Chapter 3

To his credit, Spock didn’t speak right away–he took a moment to contemplate the tableau.

“Captain,” he said, sounding utterly unaware of the time, “do you require assistance?”

Kirk stared helplessly at him for a moment.

“Yes, Mr. Spock,” he said finally. “Your assistance would be most welcome.”

Spock strode into the room, glass crunching under his boots. His boots, Kirk realized, looking up. Spock was fully dressed.

“Did I wake you?” Kirk asked as Spock lifted him carefully out of the ruins.

“No,” said Spock. “I do not require as much sleep as you do.” He set Kirk safely by his desk and waded back into the sleeping room, plucking glass from the floor as he walked.

Kirk stood there, unable to speak for a moment. He look down at himself, admiring his new 98 percent proof sleep pants. _Jesus_ , he thought. _What is Spock thinking? That his captain is a sleep-walking drunk?_ “You don’t have to do that, Spock,” he blurted out. Spock turned, his hands filled with sharp points.

“I am unaware of any position on a starship that specifically requires a crewman to conduct duties like these,” he said seriously.

Kirk snorted.

Spock looked down at his hands. “However, a receptacle of some kind would be useful,” he said, flexing his long fingers to keep the pile in place.

“Recepta--?–oh, yeah,” said Kirk. He leaned across the opening to the alcove and dropped the trashcan at Spock’s feet.

“Thank you, sir,” said Spock politely, as it it were the most normal thing in the world to be picking up after Kirk at 3:00 in the morning. He opened his fingers, letting the glass crash gently into the can. He looked about.

“I believe that it is safe for you to reenter, captain, though I would suggest you wear boots until the maintenance crew come through.” No response. Spock looked up and saw that Kirk was staring at him. "Jim?"

“Your hands, Spock–you’re bleeding.”

“I am–?” Spock looked down. “Ah. I am bleeding.” A thin line of green blood slid from his palm. They watched it fall from his fingers and into the pile of glass, where it glimmered dangerously and then disappeared.

"Here," said Kirk, pulling on his boots, "let me help you." He swept into the alcove and brushed past Spock."Don't move!"

Spock frowned--Kirk could hear it in his voice, even from within the medicine cabinet. "Captain," he said, "I do not understand what difference it will make if I move. I can exercise control over the blood flow to my extremities such that--"

"It's an expression, Spock!" Kirk barked as he burst out of the bathroom, bandages in tow. "Let me see," he demanded, bending over to get a better look. "Damn it, Spock, turn your hand over so I can see where you're cut."

Spock complied, eyebrows climbing. Kirk studied his hand, then reached out.

"Ok," he said, catching Spock's fingers in his own, "this doesn't look too bad. If I throw a bandage on, you shouldn't even have to go to sickbay."

"That would be advantageous," Spock deadpanned, vollying skillfully, as expected. Kirk looked up at him, grinning.

"Yeah, I thought you might like that. Now hold still." Carefully, Kirk wound the fast bandage around the flesh of Spock's palm, stemming the trickle of blood. Then he added a second, dissolving bandage, covering the wound completely.

"There!" he said, inordinately pleased with himself--and a bit breathless, he realized. Hmm. "Give it an hour and Dr. McCoy will never know that you cheated him out of a chance to harang you." He looked up, smiling, and found Spock staring at him. Rather intensely. With a look that said lirpa, sand, fire. Kirk's smile faltered. "Spock? Did I hurt you? I didn't mean to--"

"Jim," Spock said gently. "You are still holding my hand."

Before Kirk could move, he felt the Vulcan's other hand clamp firmly over his. He caught his breath, feeling for a moment like he was back in his dream, choking on starlight. ( _But I'm awake_ , he told himself forcefully. _Spock is really holding your hand and--smiling at you?_ ) He did a double take and reeled back, his eyes opening wide and letting in too much light. Spock held his hand fast and he snapped back up, bumping into the other man's chest. He felt a hand catch his neck and hold him fast, dark eyes burning-- _ah, so this is what it's like_ , he thought, _to have that gaze meant for you_ \--into his.

"Jim," Spock said again, his amusement filling his voice. "Don't move." Kirk held his breath, and didn't.

"Lights," Spock said clearly, and the room fell back to black. Before Kirk could register his relief, Spock kissed him, deliberately, with great care, and barely disguised restraint. Kirk felt a flash of hysteria, his exhaustion feeding it, encouraging it. _What am I doing_?! he thought wildly, even as he felt Spock's tongue tumble eagerly into his mouth, even as he wound his arms around the Vulcan's neck, pulling him closer, drinking him in, caressing his face. _What am I doing_? he thought vaguely. _Why am I_ \--

Then the feeling passed--no, was overtaken, washed away, by long fingers his hair, a strong arm around his waist, the hum of his lover's mouth against his own.

Jim Kirk was drifting.

He felt the heat of powerful hands on his back, at his waist, on his face. He gave his breath away to a hot, eager mouth. His face was full of sweet smoke, and he was happy.


End file.
